The Northwestern Forest –
Hours Later
Night
presses in close, wet and cold, the forest giving way to rock as the
terrain climbs. Hours have bled away since the clearing, since blood
and shouting and the first hard realization that this Final Exam is
not pretend. The horses move at a steady, ground-eating pace.
Lucille rides in the lead beside Cain, their shoulders almost
brushing. Her posture is loose but coiled, eyes never still. Cain
keeps the map braced against his thigh, one hand on the reins, the
other holding a flashlight fitted with a red lens. The dim glow
spills over creases and contour lines, never bright enough to carry
far. Behind them, Marcus and Decimus ride quiet, boots loose in the
stirrups, rifles slung but ready. Tiber and Arruns ghost along the
flank, spacing perfect, silhouettes breaking the line of trees like
they were born there.
Cain
taps the map with two fingers.
“Alright,”
he murmurs, Southern drawl softened but tight. “See this cut here?”
He traces a narrow line that snakes through the low ground. “If we
take this route, we shave off a few hours. Keeps us outta the worst
of the rockfall zones.” He glances at her. “Puts us here.” His
finger stops. “Overlook. I’m bettin’ that’s where the VIP’s
holed up.”
Lucille
leans in just enough to see. She doesn’t nod.
Instead,
she reaches over, taps the map once, then drags her finger in a
sharp, decisive line up and over the ridgeline.
“No,”
she says quietly. “We go high.”
Cain’s
brow furrows. “Lucy—”
“This
route,” she continues, unfazed, “cuts a full day if we keep pace.
Steep, yeah, but it gives us elevation. High ground.” Her eyes
flick ahead, already seeing it. “We hit ‘em fast. Hard. Before
they know we’re there.”
Cain
exhales through his nose. “That path’s bad news.” He taps the
map again, harder. “There was a landslide two weeks ago. Rain damn
near washed half the slope away. River got rerouted through that
pass.” His jaw tightens. “Ain’t marked here, but I remember the
reports.”
Lucille
waves it off with a flick of her fingers. “Reports are old the
second they’re written.”
“They’re
two weeks old,” Cain snaps back, then reins it in. “That
terrain’s unstable. One bad step, one spooked horse, an’ we got
bodies before we ever see the target.”
She
finally looks at him. Really looks. “It’s still the best route,”
she says. “Fastest one that matters.” Her voice stays level, iron
under velvet. “And once we’re up there, we own the field.”
She
points back toward Decimus without looking. “Decimus stays high
with the DMR. Overwatch. Sun comes up behind him, blinds the guards.”
Her hand moves, sketching shapes in the air. “Rest of us split.
Pincer from both sides. Smokes, flashbangs. Close in fast.” A beat.
“Melee,” she adds. “Quiet.”
Cain’s
mouth sets into a hard line.
“That’s
risky,” he says. “That ain’t doctrine. That’s you
freestylin’.”
Her
lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Doctrine’s written by people
scared to die.”
Cain
shakes his head. “I’ve seen you pull this kinda thing in the
sims.” His voice drops. “An’ it always costs somethin’.
Sprained legs. Broken ribs. Simulated KIA.” He looks at her now,
eyes sharp. “This ain’t a sim. Cost this time’s real people.”
Lucille’s
gaze goes forward again, into the dark spine of the mountain.
“If
we go low,” she says, “we give ‘em time. Time to move the VIP.
Time to dig in. Time to kill us proper.” Her fingers tighten on the
reins. “I ain’t failin’ this. Not ‘cause we played it safe.”
Silence
stretches between them, heavy as the fog creeping down the slopes.
Behind
them, the others listen without speaking.
Cain
folds the map once, slow and deliberate. The red light snaps off.
“You
always run straight at the fire,” he says quietly. “One day, it’s
gonna burn you.”
Lucille
doesn’t answer.
The
mountain looms higher ahead, black against a starless sky, and
somewhere up there, a decision waits that will cost them no matter
which way they turn.
Lucille
taps two fingers against the inside of her chest pocket. Leather.
Worn. Familiar.
The
book sits there like a second heart, On Wolves and Men: Command,
Loyalty, and Survival, its weight grounding her even as the
mountain wind cuts cold across her face.
“Y’know,”
she says, eyes forward, voice low, “one day I’m gonna write
somethin’ like that.” A pause. “Better, even.”
Cain
snorts softly. “That so?”
She
nods once. “Yeah. Folks’ll sit in warm rooms, read my words, an’
argue ‘bout whether I was right or not. Teachin’ my tactics like
gospel.”
Cain
laughs, real and warm, the sound easing some of the tightness in his
chest. “Ain’t laughin’ ‘cause I doubt ya,” he says. “Just…
picturin’ it.” He glances at her. “World’s mean enough to
need folks like you writin’ the rules.”
They
ride on, voices low, trading angles and contingencies. Landslides.
Water crossings. Fields of fire. The risks stack up like bones, but
Lucille keeps circling back to the same truth, speed wins. Height
wins. Surprise wins.
Then…
She stiffens.
It
is not sudden. It is not loud. It is instinct. Lucille’s head snaps
around, eyes cutting back down the line.
Cain
falls silent instantly, following her gaze. Marcus straightens in his
saddle. Decimus lifts his head, hand drifting closer to his rifle.
Lucille
pulls on the reins, slowing her horse. “Arruns,” she calls out,
sharp. “Arruns!”
No
answer.
Arruns
is slumped forward in his saddle, weight wrong, arms loose. The horse
keeps walking for three more steps before the body slides.
He
falls face-first into the dirt.
The
horse screams and jerks sideways, nearly throwing Tiber as Arruns
hits the ground with a dull, final sound.
“Arruns!”
Tiber shouts, already moving.
He
vaults from the saddle and hits the ground running, boots skidding as
he drops to his knees beside him. The others haul their horses to a
stop, metal clinking, leather creaking.
Cain
is off his horse in seconds, sliding down hard, rushing to Arruns’
free side. “Tiber—”
His
hand presses to Arruns’ side. It comes away slick. Blood. Still
warm. Too much of it.
The
bandages are soaked through, dark and heavy, the careful work Tiber
did hours ago undone silently, patiently, by the body giving up.
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“No,”
Tiber breathes, hands frantic now, rolling him just enough. “No,
no, Arruns, stay with me—”
Lucille
does not move. She sits rigid in the saddle, staring. She already
knows. She cannot hear it. No rhythm. No stubborn thud. No stubborn,
furious refusal to die.
Cain
swallows hard, fingers searching for a pulse that is not there. He
looks up at Tiber, eyes glassing. “Tiber…”
Tiber
stills.
The
mountain wind sighs through the trees.
Lucille’s
jaw tightens. Her frown is small, controlled, but it cuts deeper than
grief. She turns her gaze back toward the dark path ahead, the high
ground she chose.
Another
cost. Another tally. The mission does not stop. But the silence where
Arruns’ heartbeat should be is loud enough to haunt them all.
“I
did everythin’ right!” he shouts, voice cracking as it tears out
of him. “I packed it tight. I bandaged it right, I-I checked it
twice!” His hands tremble, slick with blood he can’t scrub away.
“He didn’t say anythin’ was wrong. Not a damn word. He shoulda
been fine.”
Cain
stays with him, steady as stone, even as the words spill like
shrapnel. “You did it right,” he says, firm, almost gentle. “You
did everything you could. Out here?” He shakes his head once.
“There wasn’t a better option. Not with what we had.”
Tiber
laughs, sharp and broken, dragging a hand through his hair. “That
ain’t good enough.”
Marcus
and Decimus share a look across the stillness. The kind of look that
needs no words. They’ve both seen this before. It never gets
easier. They have nothing to offer that won’t sound hollow.
Lucille
has nothing at all.
She
keeps her eyes forward, jaw tight, hands steady on the reins. The
sound in Tiber’s voice cuts deeper than any blade, and she knows if
she turns back, she’ll break something she cannot afford to lose.
She
nudges her horse forward.
It
obeys, hooves crunching softly as it follows the path ahead.
Marcus
watches her go. Just for a moment.
Then
he looks back to Cain and Tiber.
Cain
notices. He follows Marcus’s gaze, sees Lucille already putting
distance between herself and the body cooling in the dirt. He
exhales, then turns back to Tiber.
“We
can move him off the trail,” Cain says quietly. “Activate his
beacon. That’s… that’s all that’s left for us to do.”
Tiber
swallows hard. Nods once.
Together,
they lift Arruns, careful, reverent, and carry him a few yards off
the path. They sit him against the base of a tree, head bowed, as if
resting.
Tiber
kneels and grips the wristband. His thumb hesitates. Then he presses.
The emergency beacon chirps once, a soft, impersonal sound. A promise
that the body will not be forgotten, even if the soul already is.
“At
least they’ll find him,” Tiber murmurs.
Cain
says nothing.
Marcus
and Decimus wait until Cain and Tiber remount their horses and start
down the path after Lucille. Only when the distance grows do they
dismount.
This
part is quiet. Efficient. Magazines. Ropes. MREs. Medical kits. The
rucksack stripped clean, methodical, hands moving without ceremony.
Nothing wasted. Nothing sentimental.
When
they’re done, Arruns’ horse is loaded heavy with the weight of
what remains useful. Marcus takes the reins. They walk on, leading
the riderless horse down the darkened path, leaving the body beneath
the tree and the soft pulse of the beacon behind them. The mountain
swallows the silence.
The
Forest – An Hour Later
They
settle into a place that will have to do. The ground dips
shallow between two ridgelines, shielded from the wind and mostly
hidden from any line of sight below. Pines crowd close, their needles
damp and black with rain from days past. The earth smells old here,
wet soil, rot, stone. Safe enough. Or as close as anything gets.
Marcus
and Decimus work without speaking. They kneel in the dirt, sleeves
rolled, hands already filthy as they finish shaping the dakota fire
hole. The main pit is narrow and deep, carefully carved. The
secondary tunnel angles just right, feeding air where it needs to go.
Marcus uses a thick stick to scrape the last loose soil free, breath
puffing slow and controlled. Decimus checks the draw with his palm,
nods once.
“Good
pull,” he mutters.
Marcus
doesn’t answer. He just shifts aside as Decimus feeds in tinder;
dry bark shaved thin, a twist of cloth, a few brittle sticks saved
for this exact moment. Steel kisses steel. A spark flares, then
another. Smoke curls low and thin, barely visible.
When
the fire finally takes, it does so quietly.
Down
in the hole, flame licks and settles, hidden from a distance. The
first soft pops echo like restrained gunfire. The warmth is real but
muted, a secret they share with the dirt.
Lucille
lowers herself onto a fallen log nearby. Her movements are slower
now, the sharp edge dulled by exhaustion. She digs into her rucksack,
pulls out an MRE, and tosses it to Cain without looking.
He
catches it on instinct.
“Thanks,”
he says softly.
She
nods once and pulls out her own, tearing it open with her teeth. The
ration heater crinkles loud in the quiet. She shoves the packet
inside, adds a splash of water, then sets it near the fire hole where
the heat can do its work.
Cain
mirrors her movements, mechanical. His hands shake just a little. He
notices and stills them, jaw tightening. He glances at Lucille, like
he might say something, then thinks better of it.
Across
the fire hole, Tiber sits alone.
He’s
hunched forward, elbows on his knees, MRE resting unopened in his
hands. The faint firelight paints his face in dull orange, carving
shadows under his eyes. He stares at the packet like it’s something
foreign, like he’s forgotten what it’s for.
The
steam rising from the fire curls between them, thin and pale.
No
one talks.
The
forest does it for them. Night insects buzz and chirr, constant and
uncaring. Something small scurries through underbrush not far off. An
owl calls once, distant. The wind moves through the trees in slow
breaths, pine needles whispering secrets they don’t want to hear.
The
fire crackles again, a little louder this time.
Lucille
unwraps her meal when it’s ready. She eats without tasting it,
chewing slow, eyes unfocused as she stares past the fire and into
nothing. Her fingers are nicked and raw, grime ground into every
crease. She doesn’t bother wiping them clean.
Cain
eats too, forcing each bite down. The food sits heavy in his gut,
like it knows it doesn’t belong there. He watches Tiber between
mouthfuls.
Eventually,
Tiber tears his MRE open. The sound is sharp, almost violent in the
stillness. He sets it by the fire hole but doesn’t eat yet. His
hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing, then curling into fists.
Marcus
finishes tamping the dirt around the fire hole and stands. He rolls
his shoulders, joints popping softly. Decimus joins him, eyes
scanning the treeline on instinct, rifle never far from hand.
“We’ll
rotate watch,” Decimus says low. “Short shifts.”
Marcus
nods. “Ain’t nobody sleepin’ deep tonight anyway.”
No
one argues. The fire settles into a steady rhythm beneath the earth,
breathing through its hidden channel. Warmth seeps upward, thin but
welcome. Six went in. Five sit around the fire. And the mountain
keeps their count better than any of them do.
Marcus
breaks the silence first. “You two got somethin’ figured
out yet?” he asks, voice low, careful, like he’s afraid to
startle the night itself. His eyes flick from Lucille to Cain, then
back again. “Any kinda plan on how we’re takin’ this VIP?”
Lucille
pauses mid-bite. She and Cain share a look, brief, heavy. The truth
sits between them like an unspoken sin. But
Lucille swallows, wipes her mouth on the back of her sleeve, and nods
once.
“Yeah,”
she says. “We do.”
Cain
turns his head just enough to look at her. He doesn’t contradict
her. Not here. Not now.
Lucille
leans forward, elbows on her knees, firelight carving her face into
sharp planes. “Decimus takes high ground. Far enough out he ain’t
silhouetted, close enough he can see whites of eyes if he has to. DMR
stays quiet unless it don’t.”
Decimus
lifts his chin slightly, acknowledging without comment.
“The
rest of us split,” Lucille continues. “Two and two. Pincer in
from both sides. Fast. Loud. Overwhelmin’. Flashbangs first. Smoke
if we need cover. We don’t give ‘em time to think, don’t give
‘em time to call it in.”
She
glances at Cain. “We hit hard, we grab the VIP, and we’re gone
before anyone knows what the hell just happened.”
Marcus
studies her, jaw tight. “That’s… aggressive.”
“That’s
the point,” Lucille replies flatly. “Speed and violence. End it
quick.”
Cain
nods, though his expression remains uneasy. “If the timing’s
right, and Decimus keeps their heads down, it could work.”
Marcus
opens his mouth to say more.
Gunfire
cuts through the night.
Sharp.
Distant. Real.
They
all freeze.
The
shots echo across the mountains, rolling through the trees like
thunder trapped in metal. Rapid fire, too fast, too panicked. A full
burst, then nothing.
Silence.
A
few seconds pass. Then three measured shots. Another pause. Then a
sudden, chaotic eruption of gunfire, overlapping reports chewing
through the dark.
Then….
Nothing.
The
forest swallows the sound whole. No birds scatter. No wind stirs.
Even the fire seems to hush, its crackle muted down in the earth.
They
don’t move. They don’t speak. Breaths slow, shallow. Each of them
listens like prey, waiting for the sound of boots, the snap of
branches, the inevitable realization that someone is coming for them
next.
Long
seconds drag by.
Finally,
when the silence stretches too long to be coincidence, Tiber exhales
shakily. He stares into the fire hole, eyes glassy, voice barely more
than a whisper.
“Every
time I hear that,” he mutters, “s’like… like it’s just
takin’ more of ‘em.”
No
one asks who he means.
Friends.
Cadets. Names they learned, faces they trained beside. People who
laughed in mess halls and complained about drills and swore they’d
make it through together.
Lucille’s
jaw tightens. She doesn’t look at the fire. She looks outward, into
the trees, into the dark.
Cain
closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again.
Marcus
shifts his weight, uncomfortable, and Decimus finally breaks the
silence, voice steady but grim.
“That
fight’s done,” he says. “Whoever won ain’t movin’ fast.
Yet.”
The
word yet hangs heavy.
Lucille
nods once. “Means time’s burnin’.”
She
stands, firelight flashing in her eyes. “We don’t wait for this
place to get louder.”
No
one argues.
Above
them, the mountains remain indifferent.
And
somewhere in the dark, the dead are already being counted.
